There's an old adage that goes-if you can't afford to lose, you can't afford to bet. I've always thought that statement spoke the truth, so I've avoided gambling unless it's a sure thing. I'm a world-class three-cushion billiard player, but because the sport is so obscure, most of my friends and neighbors aren't aware of my talent.
It was a wintry Friday night and I was at a party at my neighbor's home, watching the action around the pool table in his recreation room. A leggy blonde of indeterminable age, wearing a short mini-skirt, sat on a high stool across from me. Every so often, she would take a sip of her drink and then set it back down on the table beside her. Each time she reached for her drink, her knees would unfold and give me a great view of her panty-clad pussy.
After about the fifth or sixth time she spread, I glanced up and looked directly in her eyes. As I blushed at being caught, she flashed me a brilliant smile and issued a low, growling laugh. Then she slid down off her stool and walked over to me.
"Enjoy the view?" she whispered in my ear, leaning over enough to give me an additional view down the front of her blouse.
"It was more than just a view," I responded. "It was more like a display . . . a really nice display, by the way. The type I've always enjoyed witnessing over and over again."
"Thanks. Glad you liked it. Maybe later on I'll put on another performance." She chuckled as she headed off to another part of the house.
Later on, my host told me her name was Pat Sullivan and that she lived just down the block.
Turning my attention back to the pool table, I watched a different woman who was playing and beating everyone in sight. She was a good basement player and tried to get someone to play her for money, but she didn't have any takers.
Her name was Ann Thompson and she owned a beauty shop in the strip mall off Fourteen-Mile Road. An attractive middle-aged woman with two teenage kids, she wore clothes a little too gaudy for my taste, but she turned most heads-mine included-when she walked past.
She wore red leather pants tucked into high-heeled, knee-high, black boots and a black leather bustier. I doubted she had anything on underneath her front-laced top, because it showed almost all of her ample chest. When she bent over to hit a pool shot, her audience-including me-would watch intently, hoping she would fall out of the contraption. The finishing touch to her outfit was her fingernail polish, which was exactly the same shade as her pants.
A couple of times, when she bent over to hit a shot, her leather-clad ass wound up only inches from my face. Her butt was firm and it took every bit of self-control I could muster not to pinch her sweet ass.
"I'll play," I said when she couldn't find any takers to play for money. "But not for money. How about . . . I'll clean your house and wash your windows, against you giving me a haircut?"
"You're on," she said without any hesitation at all.
Now, a pool table is different from a billiard table. To begin with, it's smaller and has six holes. But the stick action for the game is the same, so I knew I wouldn't have any trouble winning. I figured I'd knock her down a peg or two and get a free haircut out of the deal.
We lagged for the break and I won. Without ceremony, I cleared the table and won the game without her even getting a shot. Now, you have to be a really good stick handler to do that-or damn lucky. I was a little bit of both.
"God . . . you're lucky," she said. "I need another shot at you. Name your stakes and let's play again."
"Do you do manicures and pedicures?" I asked.
"Yes." She nodded and we agreed to play for a manicure against the haircut she already owed me. This time, she had the break and when she leaned over to start shooting, she made a point of waiting until I looked at her and smiled. "Maybe what I need to do is distract you just a wee bit."
Looking down her top, I could clearly see her tits and her hard, protruding nipples, which looked ripe for sucking. Still blatantly ogling her chest, I smirked. "We'll see."
When I won again, we played a third game for a pedicure-which I also won.
"Maybe I'd be distracted if you slipped off those red pants," I whispered in her ear, a big grin on my face.
"I don't know about that. I do know you're about the luckiest bastard I've ever seen," Ann said, laughing and shaking her head back and forth. "I think I'm better than you are. I wish we were playing on my table; I'd kick your ass but good. I just know I'd beat the pants off you."
"Next time, we can play for our pants," I said with a chuckle. "When do I get to collect on this bet?"
"How about tomorrow afternoon? If you come by my house, I'll give you the works all in one sitting. I have customers at the shop all morning, but I'll be home around three. Would that be okay?"
Just as I agreed, her husband showed up and starting laughing at her. He was one of those loud salesman-type guys. He looked like a dude who, in his younger days, might've been in great shape, but who hadn't worked out in at least ten years. The most action he probably saw now was bending his elbow at the bar.
"Well, I guess you caught your tits in the wringer that time, sweetie. There's at least one guy who doesn't have to kiss your puckered-up ass. He just kicked it but good," he said with another boisterous laugh.
"I'm sorry," Ann said, ushering her husband away, "he's had a little too much to drink I'm afraid. It's time I take him home. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
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